It's the Damn Leather Jacket
by sharmini
Summary: Sherlock is in a bad situation, thanks to John's choice of wardrobe.


_This one started out as something entirely different and ended up as this sort – of drabble. Once again, it is implied – slash, though I think that description is wearing a little thin. I just hope I got Sherlock's points of view correctly; he may be a fictional character, but I would not want to write anything that would make Sherlock less amazing than he already is._

_Reviews make my day. Let me know if got Sherlock (hah!) right._

_I do not own Sherlock because it just way to brilliant. I would settle for an eccentric consultant detective and/ or his flatmate. You may use your deductive skills to figure who they are, if I am not being obvious enough._

_I apologize for my grammar. I am still trying to get the hang of perspective changes._

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><p>If Mycroft was there, he would have probably ordered his assistants to seize and capture his younger brother, whisk him off to a secret underground facility somewhere and subject him to an immediate brain scan or a full medical check – up.<p>

Or he would have laughed his head off, before walking away with his usual smug, know-it-all smirk and a swing of his ever – present black umbrella.

Sherlock would not have grudged him either action. He found himself torn as to whether he needed medical attention or if he wanted to laugh. This was a situation he had never, for the life of him, thought he would find himself in. And he has been in some unusual situation, to say the least.

But today…

Today was different. Today was the first he was faced in such a situation. If he was nervous, which he was, he would admit, he did not show it. Because he had an audience. And John was in the audience, looking at Sherlock, grinning like mad and holding two thumbs up as if the action was enough to calm the annoying, queasy feeling of being faced by an expectant audience.

John was mad; it was his suggestion that has Sherlock in this…position now. Yes, that was it. Sherlock was in this most uncomfortable situation thanks to his mad flatmate. Who in their right mind would think of something as absurd as this?

Of course, as mad as John was, Sherlock had every right to turn down his suggestion. It would have taken a curt and decisive '_No'_ on his behalf and John would have let the matter drop and never speak of it ever again.

But John had been wearing his leather jacket (that was given to him a by a '_friend'_ from the Air Force) and had this…this look on his face and Sherlock, quite uncharacteristically, caved in.

And at that moment when he agreed to John's suggestion, Sherlock knew there were two functioning, mad men living in 221B Baker Street. Actually, many (_Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, a handful of criminals, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Mummy_) knew two mad men were living together in the flat, but when Sherlock said yes to John, the assumption became a fact…a certainty to himself.

John was mad. It was a simple as that.

How could a particularly normal man could push Sherlock into doing something that no one would have dreamt of, not even in their worst nightmare?

Therein lie the madness that Sherlock is quite convinced he was…afflicted with. And he was convinced now that his is in his predicament due to of prolonged exposure to John Watson.

There was nothing normal about John Watson. Sure, he could just walk into a room and just blend into the crowd, but to assume John was normal is akin to saying Sherlock was a good detective. It was true, but it was also very much off the mark.

Normal men do not risk their lives on a daily basis living with a self – styled consultant detective. Nor would they hesitate to pull a trigger when said flatmate was having a bit of a problem with a deranged taxi driver. Nor would they continue their association with said flatmate after nearly being blown pieces…although Sherlock would be quick to remind anyone who cared that it was John who gave him the go – ahead nod to shoot at the bomb.

And that pretty sums up John Watson's sway over the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock was not quite sure as to what compels him to agree with anything John suggests. Perhaps it was the fact that John would willingly put himself in harm's way before let anything happen to Sherlock.

That was certainly noble…but it was not quite the reason Sherlock agreeing to today's predicament. If John had suggested this when faced with a dagger – wielding masked Persian assassin, Sherlock would have happily consented to be slashed into ribbons.

But, Sherlock had agreed to John's suggestion…he should not have, but he did…

Damn that leather jacket.

It was a good thing John was wearing that jacket today. Because Sherlock was as mad as…well, as mad as only he could be and there was nothing he could do about it. No walls to shoot at, no landlady to piss off. Only twenty – two expectant faces and John at the back of the room.

Damn that leather jacket.

Well, time to get this show rolling.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am the world's only consultant detective."

Sherlock's audience, twenty – two pupils ranging from eight and eight and a half years of age, looked at him rather nervously before they managed to rally together for a scattered chorus of greeting. John gave another encouraging smile and continued his hushed conversation with Susan, Sarah's sister. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her; she was the cause for all this. And now she was talking to John, standing too close; close enough to have her bony elbow constantly in contact with the leather jacket.

It was as if the woman did not know the concept of personal space.

As did one of the pupils who had stepped forward and was now tugging at his pants with Crayola – smudged fingers.

Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes; it was a new pair of pants (John liked it enough to say that it looked '_nice'_ on him) and now there was going to be a mark on it. The child wanted to use the '_ladies'_. Sherlock looked down at the child, as if he had never been in contact with a person no taller than his knees. Which is true; Sherlock does not deal with children. Children were chaotic and unpredictable; they made adults uncomfortable.

John was looking at Sherlock now, smiling to a private joke. Perhaps John found it amusing that the world's only consultant detective was quite…stumped when it came to dealing with a child. Thankfully, Susan was already headed to the front of the class and she came and pried the child away from Sherlock and took her out.

"You may continue, Mr Holmes," she said, quite unnecessarily. She also gave him a smile that he supposed she thought was meant to be reassuring for him. This time, Sherlock did not bother to hide his indifference; he turned away from her, glanced at John (_and felt quite happy to see John alone and focused on him_) and cleared his throat before he began, this time, with a flourish that can only be him.

"As I was saying…" was all he managed before another child put up his hand. Sherlock would have ignored the boy, if it was not for the incessant wriggling that would have dislocated the boy's shoulder. He nodded at the boy, giving him the go-ahead to ask his question.

"Why does your head look funny?" the boy asked, looking very serious. Each child looked serious, as serious as Sherlock was standing at the front of the class. Sherlock looked at the boy, who was still standing and waiting for an answer. From the back of the room, Sherlock heard John attempting to disguise his laughter as a fit of coughing. Sure, John could laugh; he was not the one being scrutinized by a room full of children.

Sherlock needed a nicotine patch and a gun. Loaded, so that he could shoot the…

The coughing stopped abruptly, causing Sherlock to look at John. John was looking at Sherlock, his expression no longer amused. It was as if he heard what Sherlock was thinking.

The wall, Sherlock mouthed, gesturing with his fingers cocked into a gun and aiming at the wall to his right. The children looked as if they could not decide if they were terrified or awed.

"There is nothing wrong my skull," Sherlock said, slowly. "Whereas yours…"

Another cough, this time sounding more like a reprimand, stopped Sherlock. A glance to the back of the room and Sherlock saw John glaring at him again. Sherlock sighed. There goes another chance to set things right…the boy's skull had an anomaly…John was shaking his head.

"If you think my head looks funny, you should see the head of the man who tried to attack me with a mallet when I was working on a case in Prague…" The children's interest was immediately piqued and there was a silence in the classroom, as they waited for him to continue. Sherlock began to explain about his job and because John expected him to be nothing less than amazing in front of the children, the consultant detective did not disappoint. He felt irritated when Susan came back into the class and sidled up to John again, but other than that, nothing broke his stride, as he regaled the children with toned – down, parental – guidance worthy, but nonetheless exaggerated accounts of some of the cases he had solved.

Twenty – minutes later, Sherlock was happy to notice, John had completely ignored Susan and was as captivated as the children were with him. Sherlock liked that. He also liked it when John smiled and laughed, which is precisely why he took on John's suggestion of coming to Susan's class for the day and talk to the children about being a private detective, as part of the school's _Career Week_. Sarah apparently had been talking about this with John at the hospital and wanted him to come over and talk to the children about being in the Army. John declined, because he was in the Army and he got shot and children probably wanted to hear more than that. Sarah had told him to think it over (_mistake: never assume John would change his mind after making a decision_). On his way home, John seemingly had an epiphany. The children at Susan's class should meet a private detective…make that the world's only consultant detective. He came home, found Sherlock spraying the wall with his version of graffiti art and suggested that Sherlock should speak in Susan's class. Sherlock had blanched and actually felt a little nauseous when he heard the words _'classroom', 'pupils', 'twenty-two'_; especially when he heard_ 'Sarah's sister, Susan'._ He was about to protest when he looked at John and found himself unable to speak.

It was the damn leather jacket.

And that look on John's face; hopeful and expectant.

But, mostly, it was the leather jacket.

John might not have been conscious of it, but his posture and overall bearing improved significantly when he wore that jacket. It was certainly much better than the sheepskin jacket he usually wore and leaps and bounds above the grandfather-type cardigan he seemed to own by the dozen. But that leather jacket…it was good distraction to have when he is not working on a case. Or when he is working on one. With all the maddening facts of a case swirling around in his head, he enjoyed looking at John wearing the leather jacket. A brief, but a most welcome distraction indeed.

Perhaps he had gotten too fond of it. Or perhaps he was just too distracted by it. Because here was, in Sarah's sister's classroom, telling them about the stages of decomposition of a human corpse. Susan was horrified, the children were equally disgusted and fascinated and John was happy.

And Sherlock was happy too. It was unbelievable that a single piece of clothing could be the cause of much happiness and joy.

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><p>Sherlock, after his exertions for the day, was out cold on the sofa in the living room. John had actually been talking to himself for at least twenty – minutes before he realized the younger man was already asleep. He threw an afghan over Sherlock, watched him sleep for a moment, fought an internal battle with himself if he should push away the lock of curls on Sherlock's forehead and then, moved away quietly to his bedroom. Any slight movement or noise would wake Sherlock and John did not want that. Sherlock needed his sleep.<p>

John went to his bedroom and began his usual bedtime routine; brushing his teeth, changing into his comfortable sleeping clothes, removing Sherlock's books from his bed. He got into bed and was about to switch off the lights when his eyes fell on his leather jacket hanging at the back of a chair near his wardrobe.

The leather jacket had been a gift. From a friend of Harry's, who had been a little confused at that time and could not decide who among the Watson siblings she had been attracted to. John had not reciprocated in any way, but he appreciated the gift; an exquisite vintage piece with a flattering cut and style. When he wore it in front of Sherlock one day, the consultant detective asked in an almost off-handed way where he had gotten it from. John could not help himself when he said a '_friend'_ from the Air Force gave him. Sherlock had given the leather jacket a once over and said it suited him. Nothing more was said after that. But plenty was implied. Sherlock had not inquired about this '_friend'_, which, for a while, made John think that Sherlock had probably deducted that there was no '_friend'_ in the Air Force. But he has caught Sherlock looking at him whenever he wears the jacket (_sometimes, whenever he does not wear the jacket_) and realized that perhaps maybe...and it was a big MAYBE…Sherlock might just be a little jealous.

It hardly mattered. They were flatmates, colleagues to an extent. But it always feels that there is something else there…something deeper than just friendship. But at the moment, everything was fine the way it is. He had not planned any of this thus far and if something is to happen, it should happen on its own accord.

John smiled to himself as he switched off the lights. In the meantime, he decided, he would continue to wear his leather jacket. It really did have an effect on Sherlock and John kind of liked that. It certainly seemed to make Sherlock listen to him…almost obedient to his wishes…whenever John wears the jacket. And that made John happy.

It was unbelievable that a single piece of clothing could be the cause of much happiness and joy.

-The End-


End file.
